


Laurence's Backstory!

by TheBookEater



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gene and Laurence, M/M, Two of them, ocs! - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookEater/pseuds/TheBookEater
Summary: I wrote this for my friend Tori! She gave my permission to write for him a while ago and I'm really proud of this! I hope y'all enjoy! (You can find Tori on Instagram @e.snare_)
Relationships: Laurence Jones/ Gene Maccioli





	Laurence's Backstory!

“How did that get back to you?” The girl on her knees asked, staring directly down the barrel of the gun, quivering like one of those freaky new cartoons.

Laurence threw the gun into his other hand and backhanded the girl across the face. She yelped and fell back on her heels, clutching at the stinging spot.

“I thought we was friendly,” the American girl whimpered pathetically. “I was even startin’ to think you thought of me as…” she trailed off blushing profusely.

Laurence laughed in her face. She had the sex appeal, sure, but she had information, and that’s what he wanted. And now he had it. “But,” Laurence said as he calmed down, “you got to know me and went and yammered to all the wrong birds. Luckily for me, you got to know the wrong me.” His voice fell flat, suddenly no longer wanting a sobbing blonde in his office.

He had business to deal with. He cocked the gun, and pointed the barrel at her tear-streaked face. “Any last words, doll?”

“I’m a good girl!” she screamed, back to begging on her knees. The southern twang in her voice was starting to grate on his nerves. “I’ll tell you anythin’, but don’t kill me! I’ve got a family to take care of, I’m a good girl!”

“There are no good girls in Whitechapel. The climate doesn’t agree with them.” And then Laurence pulled the trigger, sending a small brass bullet between her eyes. Blood splattered everywhere, and Laurence laughed joyously.

God, how he loved the moment that her form collapsed on the ground, her blonde hair turning red beneath her. Damn American flappers. He laughed some more and bent down to inspect her body, a wild and uncontainable smile curling his lips. She had been pretty, but worthless in the end. He had a good run with her. But his heart, as much that was left of it, belonged to one person, Gene. Gene, like thinking about him had summoned him, walked through the door.

He looked at the stiff on the ground. “Really? Another one?” his voice wasn’t filled with disgust, but pity for the stupid. He shook his head, and went to stand by Laurence. Gene brushed the scar on Laurence’s cheek, then kissed it gently. Laurence turned his head and kissed Gene properly, all tongue and teeth and roaming hands.

When they pulled apart, Laurence had that stretched and uncontained smile back. Gene loved that smile. Gene loved Laurence’s smile, his blue-black hair, his gunmetal grey eyes, even the spidery scar that sat below Laurence’s right eye (an accident, that one had been). Gene grabbed Laurence by the beltloops of his pants, and pulled him closer.

“I’m glad you’re done with that…” Gene paused, looking for the right word. He bit his lip, glancing away from Laurence’s gaze. All it did was make Laurence want to kiss him, maybe more, again. “Accessory,” he finally decided. “What do you say we make up for lost time?”

Laurence’s eyes lit up at the prospect. He wriggled out of Gene’s grasp and went to a side door in his office, which led to their bedroom. Gene followed, shutting the door behind him.

~*~

They lay on Laurence’s bed, curled around each other, naked, and covered in bruises, bite marks, and thin scratches. Laurence was blissfully happy, playing with Gene’s ink-black hair. Gene let out a purr-like moan as Laurence’s fingers tightened in his hair painfully. Laurence snickered and let go of Gene’s hair. Gene whined, but fell asleep after a few seconds.

Laurence’s mind wandered to his youth. His parents were ridiculously wealthy, and they were always traveling to new places, small islands and large cities, unheard-of backwater towns and riverside boat cities made of wood and metal and stone. They never took Laurence with them, which meant he almost never saw them. Laurence never got lonely, however, as he went exploring in the massive forest behind his estate. He went around, finding dead squirrels to poke at with dead sticks. At first, he poked at them with his bare hands, but when he discovered one with its body turned inside out, he switched to making them jerk with a stick.

Then he found his father’s gun collection, and he stole a gun. A small pistol, nothing big. His father didn’t notice. Then Laurence went after the squirrels himself. He loved the feeling of the gun in his hand. He loved guns, the touch of oil, the acrid smell of burnt powder, the taste of brass, bright copper alloys, and good cutlery; all things well-made and deadly. It made him feel dangerous, and he figured out how to clean the guns, oil them, and protect them, which made the guns work better. He started using the bigger guns, more powerful guns that sent him flying backwards the first time he used one. He nearly blew his thumb off, but he was laughing. Laughing, actually laughing, wide-mouthed and clutching his stomach in pain as tears rolled down his face. He was ten. He kept poking at the dead, even after he made them dead, and one day, he brought one home.

Laurence’s parents were so stunned when their son waltzed in, dead rabbit in one hand and gun in the other, that they didn’t say a thing for a whole five minutes. His mother looked at him in horror and disgust, wondering where she went wrong, tears filling her eyes. His father stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder and his face contorted in anger. Then his father moved. He strode forward and snatched the gun out of Laurence’s hand, then he took the rabbit (poor thing) and threw it out the window. He then turned back to Laurence and cracked him across the face with the back of his hand.

Laurence reeled back, startled to find he hurt yes, but he liked it. He wanted more of that sharp, stinging pain. His mother cried out, finally, and strode forward, taking her heels off. She stopped halfway across the front hall and threw the shoe at him. It hit him square in the chest, and broke skin. His face flushed with pleasure, and his father grabbed him by the neck tightening his grip hard enough that there would be bruises.

“Don’t… you… ever… steal… my… guns… again,” His father said between shaking Laurence.

His mother was out for a different kind of revenge. She picked up the shoe again, and hurled it at him again. It hit Laurence’s arm this time, with the toe of the red shoe. Tears were streaming down her face, makeup smearing. “That poor innocent creature,” she nearly screamed. “It had no reason to die and yet you went and killed it for your own pleasure! How sick and twisted are you?”

_How sick and twisted are you?_ The question faded in and out of Laurence’s head as he faded in and out of consciousness. He let out a strangled moan as his toes curled. The pain in his throat as he tried to breathe mingled with the decadence of being abused like this. It was unexpected that his body would react like that, but Laurence wasn’t surprised.

Spots appeared in his vision, and his father was still shaking him.

How sick and twisted are you? _Good_ _question_ , Laurence thought. _Too bad I don’t have an answer_.

~*~

Laurence never stopped stealing his father’s guns. Ever. He never even bothered to try and hide it, leaving guns strewn about the estate, and when his father would beat him for it, it was all Laurence could do to not moan as the items he got struck with got harsher. Shoes. A belt. A chair. One of his mother’s favorite riding crops. Pottery (which shattered when it hit the ground, cutting his feet). One time, his father took a gun and bopped him on the head with the butt of the gun. Laurence would’ve enjoyed it had he not been conked out.

He woke up in his bed, one of the maids (Italian) tending to the dull pounding in his temple. He growled low in his throat and swiped at her weakly, but his arm was shaky and he missed completely. Still, the girl squeaked and jerked back, a bloody towel in her hand. Was he bleeding? Did his father really hit that hard? His eyes closed again, and he fell asleep.

Laurence woke again, this time the maid was gone and had been replaced with his mother. She had avoided him for the past few months, but now she was sitting next to his bedside, stroking his hair back from his face. He closed his eyes and let himself indulge in the feeling of his mother’s thin fingers running through his hair. He missed that feeling. Laurence heard her sigh and the feeling of her hands carding through his blue-black locks stopped.

“You’re going to boarding school, Laur,” she whispered, her voice raw like she had been crying. Why was she crying? Laurence didn’t want to know, but he kept his eyes closed.

“Why,” he whispered back.

“It’ll be good for you. You’ll make some new friends.”

This time Laurence did open his eyes. “You mean I won’t be able to bother you and Father with dead squirrels. It’ll be good for _you_.”

Laurence’s mother started like she had slapped her. “No… no, no. It was your father’s decision, Laurence, trust me.” Her eyes were red-rimmed and full of tears. For some reason, Laurence did trust her. He hugged her, and he felt her go stiff under his embrace. She was still disgusted by him. He let her go, and flopped back onto his bed. His mother sighed and left. That interaction did not go as she had wanted it to.

~*~

It was a ridiculously ostentatious, all-boys boarding school, in England, no less. On the moor. Which was essentially the middle of No-Where’s-Ville, No Where. Laurence disliked it more than a person could be given credit for, which was a lot. The uniform was a mixture of feelings. He hated the ties, which strangled him, but he did like the pants, because they made his legs look longer than they actually were. His hair had to be slicked back, and he had to wear gloves, for crying out loud. _Gloves_. It was like they were trying to _make_ him flip a switch.

Still, they had a hunting program, for the willing. Laurence signed up for that right away, along with chemistry and economics. He signed up for statistics and financial learning. He signed up for many classes, and he did well in all of them. He was polite to the teachers, terribly respectful, actually. He was in honors roll, he did extra credit, and helped tutor other kids.

But behind everyone’s back, he seethed. Quietly, of course. The school’s newspaper was peppered with “fuck this hellhole” written every few paragraphs. The headmaster’s shady letters were spread throughout the school, passed along through lockers and desks and whispered conversations. Everyone knew it was him, they just had no evidence. Nothing, and the headmaster was just begging for Laurence to slip up so that he could be expelled. But he never did.

But things just kept bringing Laurence closer and closer to the edge. The _kids_. _Boys_ , more accurately, and what they did to him. Deep grooves carved into his desk, telling him how worthless he was (as if he needed strangers to tell him that). Being cornered in the bathrooms, left to bleed out (not that he ever did). Stealing his food, and tripping him up on their horses. Bunch of good-for-nothing twerps. Silently, Laurence seethed. One day, he swore, he would snap.

That day came sooner than expected.

A group of boys cornered him behind the cafeteria as he took his nightly walk. One of them (Lincoln, maybe) started blabbing, something about him being the top dog in the school, _not_ Laurence and how he was going to _finally_ put him in his place, etc., etc., etc. The boy’s lackey’s shoving him against the kitchen’s window, shattering it. Laurence winced in pain and thanked the gods that it was a moonless night. He could feel the blood trickling out of his skull and down the back of his neck, but also felt a familiar feeling pool in his gut. A kick landed to his gut, and pain bloomed in his face as a punch landed on his now-red cheek. He tried fighting back, but because there were so many of them, and he wasn’t entirely focused because of the blood rushing to his groin. (He’d have to work on getting better at controlling this infatuation with pain…) He fell to the ground right on top of the shattered glass, which ripped his nightshirt. His hands started bleeding, too, and so did the side of his face. _That’s going to scar_ , he thought pitifully. He didn’t think of himself as vain, but Laurence knew he was pretty and it certainly didn’t do any harm to look good. Laurence’s hand clenched as a boot landed on his kidney. He did not like _that_. 

What he did like was the piece of glass tightly wrapped by his hand. He pushed himself off the ground with another hiss. He spun around to face his attackers, then _he_ was the attacker. He leapt forward, sliced open a jugular, and leapt back. For a moment, everyone stood stock-still.

“I didn’t think you’d _kill_ Lewis,” Lincoln said sadly.

Laurence laughed and wiped some of the grit off his face. “I did,” he said. “I just didn’t think it’d happen so soon.”

It was war. Lincoln swung his fist again, but drew his hand back with lacerated knuckles. He sucked in a breath. And tried again, and again. And again. When Lincoln drew back once more, Laurence pushed in on the offensive. He drove his shoulder into the other boy’s chest, sending him stumbling back. He landed on his rear end, soft hands scraping on the harsh gravel. Laurence’s boot made contact with Lincoln’s chest, and when his head was fully on the ground, Laurence split his rival’s throat from ear to ear. Lincoln garbled something unintelligible as blood splattered Laurence’s shirt again, but he wasn’t focused on that. He had other witnesses to dispose of. They were actually _easier_ to kill. Their blood pooled beneath them.

Laurence looked at them and _laughed_. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was a wonder that nobody woke up. They had died so _easily_. Was that what it felt like to hold a human life in his hands? To Laurence, it felt like magic to have that much power over someone. It felt glorious. Now, to move on with his life.

Use your imagination as to how he got to America.

~*~

“Well?” the man in front of him asked expectantly. His lip curled into a sneer when Laurence didn’t reply.

“If you’d untie me, then maybe I’ll think about it,” Laurence snapped.

“Will you try to kill me if I let you go?”

“ _Most certainly_.”

It had been three years since Laurence ran away from the moors to America. In that time, he had made a sort of mercenary of himself. Taking odd jobs for money, most of which included settling turf wars in the backstreets of Queens. Most of the time that included killing, which he was fine with. Those were his favorite days. Once in a while it was more of an undercover job, but he did them all the same. He got paid. And he had built a name for himself, the Jade Assassin.

The only reason he had adopted a name was one of his employers had suggested it. Well, the employer had suggested more, but Laurence wasn’t selling his body’s services, just his ability to kill. Something about Laurence being Japanese-American, and him being “too beautiful to waste”. Laurence had done that job then cut off all ties.

The idea he did take away from that was to leave a little jade-imitation bracelet on his victim’s wrists. He left a note attached to the first five, maybe, and then his name was out there. The police hated him. Politicians pretended to hate him. And now, he knew the mafia loved him.

The man in front of Laurence cocked his head. “Good to know you’re not a tame dog, Jade Assassin.”

“I’m not a dog,” Laurence spat. The man only gave him a look of disbelief.

Laurence relented. “I’m with you, fine.”

The ropes around his wrists fell off. He was free. Time to show these fuckers in America who they were up against. The Jade Assassin. 


End file.
